


She's My Daughter

by sparkles321



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson - Freeform, John Watson is Perfect, OC, Sherlock-centric, fanfiction.net saw it first, sherlock has a kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6605461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkles321/pseuds/sparkles321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty drug the knife across the girl's arm.<br/>"Naughty Sherlock. You didn't tell me you had a daughter. Oh! Perhaps you didn't even know. Did you have an AFFAIR?"</p><p> Sherlock' s voice was calm, but his hands uncharacteristically shook. "I was married."<br/>"Oh,my. A woman loved YOU? This is your daughter?"<br/>"Let her go! She has nothing you want."<br/>"You didn't answer me!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> {I've decided to share this story with the ao3 world! It recieved such an overwhelmingly kind response on fanfiction.net that I couldn't abandon it. :) I wrote it two years ago so i apologize in advance for mistakes}

**the teaser**

_Moriarty's tone was teasing, but his expression was deadly serious. He drug the knife across the girl's arm again._

" _Naughty, naughty Sherlock. You didn't tell me you had a daughter..? Oh! But perhaps you didn't even know. Did you have an affair, Sherlock?"_

_Sherlock' s voice was calm, but his hands uncharacteristically shook. "I was married."_

_"Oh,my my. Shocking, really, that a woman married YOU. But she is your daughter, isn't she?"_

_"Let her go, Moriarty. She has nothing you want."_

_"You didn't answer my question..."_

The Story

John Watson was angry. He blew out his breath in a huff.

"Sherlock, you're being insufferable."

"Am I, now?" Sherlock asked, the picture of innocence. He typed some more into his phone.

"You know what I mean. The secrets. Last time you got secret texts, you jumped off a building, IN CASE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN!"

"I didn't exactly jump," Sherlock muttered tersley, knowing it was a sore subject.

"Well, it was rather traumatic for those of us on the ground."

"We've been through this, I said I was sorry."

They were quiet for a few moments. Then Sherlock ventured,

"I really can't tell you about these messages, John."

"Why not? You know everything about me. It's unnerving."

"I'll tell you when the time is right."

John was preparing to return home when Ms. Hudson came bustling in. "Mail call, boys."

She beamed at them. "How nice, John. You've been invited to a conference for doctors or something tomorrow, look. I can't believe that they're still sending your mail here. And Sherlock, you got a letter too. I'll just set the Telegraph here..."

John quickly scanned the invite. His therapist would certainly say he should go, and it actually sounded mildly interesting. Not as exciting as crime, though.

"Sherlock?"

"Go to your convention, I don't expect any cases," he said without looking up from his letter.

More than a little upset, John stalked out. Sherlock could be so cold sometimes. Perhaps a little break was what both friends needed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was reading his letter with varying degrees of dismay.

Mr. _Holmes,_ the letter read in a cool, formal style he knew so well.

Pe _rhaps you remember me. My name is Rose Smith, and I worked for Ms. Elsie Raymond's family while you were courting her. After you two married, Elsie's furious father annulled the marriage, as you well know. You tried vainly to reach Elsie, using all your detecting ability, but eventually gave up. I cannot blame you - you weren't even of age(21), after all. Her father, I believe, wrote a cold, brief epistle to you informing you that Elsie died._

_Ms. Elsie's parents are now dead as well, and it is my duty to inform you of something rather painful. Elsie' s father neglected to tell you how she died._

_Mr. Holmes, she died from complications after giving birth prematurely._

_The child still lives. The child is currently fifteen years old and living at the old Raymond Manor with money from the Raymond estate furnishing tutoring and living expenses._

_However, the child has no surviving relatives, and will be sent to foster care unless you decide to open your home._

_If you should, please do not hesitate to call._

There was a number and a signature.

"My God," he said a little blankly.

John reappeared in the door. "Sherlock, I'm leaving now."

"Oh," he said snapping out of his daze. "Goodbye, John."

He turned back to the letter, hearing the door slam.

His phone beeped again, another 'secret' text.

"Why won't you come play?"

J.M

He no longer cared about Moriarty and his cryptic messages. Now was the time to venture to his mind palace and concentrate, to think of the things he'd pushed away for so long.

He'd been in love with Elsie Raymond, a 20 year old heiress from a prestigious old family. They had met in their first year of college, and she had been...wonderful.

Girls did not vie for young Sherlock's attention. He was at college just as he was now - cool, unfriendly, dedicated to deduction.

But Elsie had been different. Yes, she was refined and quiet, but she was also determined to throw aside her stuffy family's rules and become a forensic investigator.

A year spent in courtship - a pure, innocent time where they'd laughed like children, read more books than most librarians, and prayed more than most ministers- and he proposed. He began to open up, to bloom towards this light.

He did not inform his family, nor did she. They eloped.

They spent a few beautiful months together in a little house. But one day her father showed up, convinced Sherlock was after her money only.

Since Elsie was just 19 at the time, he had their marriage annulled, and he took Elsie back to Raymond Manor.

The bloom crumpled, trampled underfoot. Sherlock tried vainly to find her, but her father used all his influences to keep him away.

So Sherlock ordered his extraordinary mind to forget, and nearly forget it did - until now.

Leaping up, he scrambled wildly with his desk drawer, pulling it until a secret compartment popped. He picked up the first thing that fell out- a faded snapshot of a beautiful young woman, enormous blue eyes fixed lovingly on a much younger version of himself. Her brown hair was gathered into a ponytail, and she wore a sparkly headband.

Now he stared at his phone, then snatched it up, breathing hard.

He dialled the number from the letter.


	2. Chapter 2

"Raymond Manor, this 'eres Rose."

His long fingers tapping patterns into the desk, Sherlock said,"This is Sherlock Holmes."

An excitable, high voice with a pronounced cockney accent replied, "Mr. 'Olmes! Thank goodness you called. I suppose you want ta' know more about the child before you make a desicion?"

"Stop saying 'child', " he said irritably. "Is it a boy or girl?"

"It's a girl, sir. A fifteen year old girl."

"I assume she has a name?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, trying not to look at the snapshot on his desk, trying not to wonder if the girl looked like Elsie.

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes-" The way she pronounced Mr, it sounded like Meestah.

She continued, "- the girl's name is Felicity Grace."

 _Felicity Grace._ Blood roared in his head. Now he had a name; a faceless, named creature who needed him.

"Spittin' image of 'er mum, Mr. 'olmes. All we need is a bit of paperwork and she's yours. You do want her?"

"Uh. Well, actually I have a bit of a reputation. I wouldn't want her in any dangerous situations..."

What would he, Sherlock, do with a child? He continued to make excuses.

"Listen 'ere, Mr. 'Olmes," the woman's voice lowered conspiratorially,"The week after the birth,when Ms. Elsie was dyin', she was a-cryin' and beggin' her father and mother to take the baby to you.

'He'll love her, oh please, bring her to him or bring him here. You'll blame her for my dying; Sherlock won't. Oh, Sherlock!'

"They wouldn't, of course. They'd just lost their only daughter and they weren't about to surrender their only granddaughter. But now's your chance to make good on her last wish. In a strange way, old Raymond and his wife did blame little Lissie for her mother's death. Poor girl, I don't think that they ever told her they loved her."

Elsie- crying out for him as she died. He swallowed hard. "Does the girl know about me? I mean, that I might take her in?"

"Yes, sir. The Raymond' s did their best to pollute your name while they were alive, but I'm pretty sure the letters did their work."

"Letters?" Sherlock was curious.

"Yes, Mr. 'olmes. A week's a long time when you're dying, and Ms. Elsie used every second her parents weren't around to write secret letters to be given to Lissie on her birthday. In each letter she mentioned all the things she'd loved about you and how Lissie was to find you as soon as she could.

She wrote sixteen lettters, poor thing, and I've been opening them and reading them to Lissie on her birthday ever since. Oh, how Ms. Elsie loved that child. She died holding it, you know."

He could feel a hot, burning sensation in his throat and struggled to control his emotions.

 _Fifteen is old enough to take care of herself. She'd be at school while you were on cases, perfectly safe. She wouldn't cause any trouble.._.

His mind palace was betraying him, filling with images of Elsie.

"Mr. 'Olmes? Are you still there? I said, perhaps we could meet at a coffeehouse? I'm heading into London this afternoon."

He made a few arrangements and hung up.

He worked his fingers into a steeple, thinking hard. Abruptly, he rose. "Ms. Hudson? I'm going out."

"Do be careful, Sherlock. I'm going to a bridge meeting, so the house will be locked when you return."

* * *

Sherlock and Ms. Hudson had been gone less than an hour when a window at 221B cracked open.

"Sherrrrlock?"

Jim Moriarty looked about disappointedly.

"No one to play with. I need a new pawn," he mused aloud. "Sherlock can't refuse a game then."

Might as well snoop about, he decided. His eyes fell on the letter, and he picked it up curiously. Sherlock had torn the part with the number off, so the general message was unreadable, but Moriarty caught and deciphered a few words.

_Your daughter_

_When you were courting_

"Well, well. Looks as if this pawn has fallen into my lap." He rose, and left the flat, excited. "I'd better get busy."

* * *

Sherlock hadn't known where he was walking, just that he was going to think along the way.

Now he stopped in front of a bookstore and gazed in. He loved books. Would the girl like books? What was her nickname? Oh, Lissie.

In a rash move, he stepped inside the store and headed for the teen fiction section.

"All rot," he muttered, surveying the paranormal romances.

His eyes found a bookshelf filled with boxed sets of the Anne of Green Gables series.

He purchased a set, without really knowing why.

Now it was time to meet Rose.

A horrid violinist was playing in one corner of the coffeehouse, and he stopped to wince before hastening to Rose.

She'd brought him an old Polaroid. "It's you and Ms. Elsie," she supplied helpfully. "Found it in Elsie' s drawer."

He pocketed the photo and studied Rose for a few moments.

_Divorced or something- there's an imprint where a ring was on her hand. At least fifty. Excitable. Drinks a bit on the weekends. Seems like she really cares about the girl._

Rose seemed truly concerned about Lissie. "I don't want ta' think of that child in a group home, Mr. 'Olmes. They wouldna' understand her."

"How so?"

"She's either very quiet or she talks paragraphs. Either she's making friends wherever she goes or she's sitting about reading. She's not overly emotional, but she likes ta' imagine things about her mother.

'Did she really die holding me?', she'll ask, then change the subject all abrupt-like. I think Mr. Raymond really made her feel responsible for the death."

"And she's not," he said hotly. Sudden, righteous anger at the old Raymonds spurted in him. He'd hated them once, for taking his Elsie away. Now he hated them again, for what they'd done to Lissie. His daughter. How foreign the words felt.

"Don't look at me that way, Mr. 'Olmes, I know she isn't! Anyhow, she's always finding people to help. Oughta be a doctor."

He felt someone watching him and looked up suddenly. There was no one there. He remembered Moriarty's texts and hoped he wasn't being followed.


	3. Chapter 3

Rose was dreadfully persuasive. Sherlock found himself in a car headed to Raymond Manor within the hour.

He wanted to see Felicity and at the same time, he did not.

For the first time ever, he wished he wasn't always alone. He needed someone to talk to, to ask advice. What was he to do with this child? Bring her back to his flat? Leave her here?

What if she hated him? Or, what if he hated her? What if she was a spoiled little brat?

He pressed his lips in a thin line and stared ahead.

* * *

The girl paused as she neatly wrote her name.

_Felicity Grace __

For fifteen years - her entire life - she'd caved to the pressure and scrawled 'Raymond' as a last name.

Never again. She was tired of feeling like some sort of illegitimate love child. The name Holmes was nothing to be ashamed of, after all. He was a brilliant mastermind, from the blogs she'd read and articles she'd clipped. But when she wrote _Felicity Grace Holmes, i_ t didn't look right, either.

She sank to her knees , brushing a lock of brown hair away.

"Who am I?", she whispered.

She was in her special place, the attic of Raymond Manor. No one dared venture up there, and she'd built a false wall of boxes , furniture and old bricks a stone mason had left years ago. Open the door on the bottom right cabinet and crawl through the 'wall', and you had made it into her spot.

Sunlight filtered through an uncovered window, and she had an excellent view of the grounds below. She liked knowing all the goings on. It made her feel safe.

Sometimes she brought books from her room up here, or her journal. Other times she came here to think, or pray.

She stored all her newspaper clippings here too, stories of Mr. Holmes.

Currently, though, she was beginning a new journal, and she had no idea what name to write inside the cover. She pressed her trembling hands together in an effort to still them.

She had never been this shaky and nervous before. Her entire body was trembling with anticipation and pent-up worry. And a need to know who she belonged to.

Why?

All because she had a feeling her father would cone today.

She couldn't explain it, just that she felt it, deep inside.

A commotion outside made her look up. Rose's green sedan, pulling slowly into the long driveway.

Someone was with Rose. Their shape was indistinguishable, but instinct told her it was her father.

As if in a trance, she crawled out of her spot and walked to her room, giving herself a once over in the mirror.

Did she look loveable? Faded navy sundress, orange cardigan with sleeves rolled up. Ponytail with wavy ends. She pinned back a few wayward curls.

Oh, how she wanted him to like her, to love her, to approve, somehow.

She had heard the reports- he was cold and sarcastic- but she did not care. She only wanted to know what he thought of her.

Would he look like her? The newspaper and blog posts rarely showed his face, and her grandparents had clipped his picture out of every photo with her mother.

She put her hand in her dress pocket and found her mother's most recent birthday letter. She'd forgotten she'd left it there.

Opening it, she rexamined it for words of support. Her eyes fell on the last lines.

_I hope you have met your father by now. If not, keep trying._

_He will love you - and if he knows about you, he loves you now. He may not be aware of it, but he loves you._

From her bedroom window, she saw the top of a man's head exit the car.

Tingles surged through her body, and suddenly she felt she might be sick. What if he couldn't _stand her?_

 _Help me, God_.

She walked downstairs.

* * *

Sherlock looked up and for a moment, he thought his mind palace was playing tricks and he was seeing Elsie.

Sunlight reflected off the girl's brown hair, and illumitated her slender figure.

She stood in the doorwat, waiting. Her blue eyes were enormous in her pale face, which was unusually white against her tanned skin.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's long legs ascended the steps easily. He was beside Lissie in a moment, studying her.

"Mr. Holmes," she began nervously, unsure of what to call him. Rose had vanished; they were alone in the ornate, stuffy old parlor.

"Sherlock' s fine," he said coolly, still scrutinizing her.

"Sherlock," she tried again, brightly. "I'm so happy to finally meet you."

"Yes, yes," he murmured.

Most girls would have thought him rude and brisk, but somehow she understood that this was just his way. It did not mean he hated her - at least, not yet.

She wondered why he kept staring at her. Perhaps he was deducting things? She'd read somewhere that he could study a person for a few minutes and learn much about them.

"I've read a blog about you," she ventured.

"Oh," he groaned. "You aren't a fangirl, I hope. We've had a few odd ones around ever since John started that blog."

She smiled a little. "No, I'm not a fangirl."

"Good." He turned away and looked around.

"Have you been here before?"

His eyes narrowed somewhat. "Yes."

She could tell volumes from his expression. "I guess your experience wasn't pleasant. I'm sorry."

He looked sideways at her. "Don't be."

How very strange everything was! Her father was standing right here, and they were having a casual conversation as if he were a passing visitor. She wanted to run to him, to beg him to love her. But she willed herself to be still and stand there, leaning against the mantle. She heard the clock ticking faithfully away. It sounded very loud in the silence.

"Fifteen years is a lot to catch up on," she said slowly. "Should I fill you in?"

He gave a little nod. "If you wish."

She could feel hot tears burning. Did he even care? She knew that his way took time, but he could at least show some sign of interest.

Lissie wished she had something to interest him, or to shock him. Suddenly she remembered the letter in her pocket and withdrew it.

She found the lines where her mother talked about her father's love.

"I'm going to read something to you," she said, and read it, searching his face for a show of any emotion.

He stared impassively at her. Finally he spoke. "You look like your mother."

She blinked. "Thank you..."

"It's a compliment."

Why was he such a puzzle, an enigma? It was as if he spoke in riddles. She bit her lip.

"Do you think you can love me?" she asked.

He looked startled. "What?"

All her bundled up emotions spilled.

"You - you don't blame me for Mum dying, do you? It was my fault." Her tears suddenly spilled over and down her cheeks. She dashed them away, hating herself for this display of weakness.

At last he showed some expression. His brown darkened, and he looked angry.

"You're mad at me?" she guessed.

"No, I am furious at whoever made you believe that it was your fault."

She froze, listening to the words she'd longed to hear.

Sherlock slowly said, "Lissie - it is not, was not, your fault. I do not blame you for a single thing. You can know that."

She sank to a chair. It did not matter now if he learned to love her or not - it was enough to know that he didn't blame her. She could rest on that. Lissie was not sure what he had deduced about her; she knew she knew practically nothing about him, and she didn't need to. Again, it was enough to simply know he didn't blame her.

His phone beeped and she could see the text.

Feel up to a case? Old friend in trouble.

John

He looked eagerly at the phone, then remembered her and put it away. She knew it had been a struggle.

"You'd better pack," he said.

It was her turn to query "What?"

"Trial run. I called my landlady on the way over here and she said I should bring you out to London for a few days if I found you agreeable."

 _So I'm not going to live with him. Just visit._ Her heart sank a little, but it was hard to be too despondent when the thought that he didn't blame her was still fluttering in her.

"I'm agreeable?" she questioned.

He laughed. He had a nice laugh. "Somewhat. Pack now, it's a bit of a trip back to London."

She fairly danced up to her room. He watched her go, already worried. What would he do with the child in London? What would John and Mary think?

Mrs. Hudson had been shocked, then adamant. "Bring her here," she'd said. She had wanted the girl to move in, but he wasn't so sure. A week sounded like enough time to get to know Lissie.

"You don't blame me for Mum dying," Lissie's tremulous voice echoed in his brain. Poor girl.

There had been a time he would've blamed her, but it was long past. Mr. Raymond was at fault, not Lissie. He'd taken Elsie away from Sherlock, breaking her heart, and kept her here with no contacts. What difference did it make if they gave her all the material things she wanted? They ignored her dying wishes.

Sherlock looked up and saw a portrait of Elsie smiling serenely. Did she know he'd met Lissie?

Lissie reappeared with a small suitcase. "I'm ready, Mr. H- er, Sherlock."

This was really happening.

They got in the car and headed home to London.


	5. Chapter 5

"You were _married_?" John removed his phone from his ear, stared at it, then returned it to his ear.

"You have a _daughter?_ " He blinked and wondered if he really had went crazy in the 'Stan.

"Yes, and I wish you'd stop repeating everything I say. You sound like a bloody parrot," Sherlock informed him.

"Sorry, sorry. It's just, well, startling, to say the least." John was driving back from his convention. "How long ago did you, er, was she, uh... How old is she?"

"Fifteen," Sherlock responded crossly.

"Oh, that's not too bad! She can practically raise herself. Mary has a sister that age, and she's quite nice-"

"John."

"What, Sherlock?"

"She's coming to stay for a _**week**_. Ms. Hudson's orders. What am I going to do for a week with a fifteen year old girl?"

"I don't know! Here, I'll call Mary and call you back. All right? And can you take a look at those files I sent you? This new case sounds interesting."

He hung up, shaking his head in disbelief. Sherlock, married! And he'd thought Sherlock had no secrets. Quickly, he dialed Mary. She was not going to believe this!

* * *

When he called Sherlock back, he was greeted with a torrent of words.

"Slow down! Most civilized society uses the word 'hello', you know."

"John, she wants to know if we're going to church tomorrow. And Mrs. Hudson told me she'd take us to her church!"

"Sherlock, what's so bad about church? Mary and I go, and I like it. You don't strike me as a heathen."

Instantly, he regretted his words when Sherlock said, "I haven't gone to church since... Elsie...died. I believe. But I don't go to church."

"Why?"

"Look, I'm the one with the questions, not you. John, I don't want to go to church."

"Then don't go!"

"Lissie told me she's been "praying for this moment". Ms. Hudson's ironing my suit."

"Oh. Then I guess you don't have a choice. Listen, Sherlock, you aren't mad at God for Elsie' s death, are you?"

"..."

Slowly, deliberately, he attempted,"When I was in Afghanistan, I...didn't understand how God could let the stuff that I saw occur happen. I still don't. But Sherlock, you have to believe that somehow, God has a plan-"

"I have to go. The girl's calling me."

* * *

As soon as Sherlock had pulled up to 221B, Ms. Hudson had enveloped Lissie, and he'd slunk away to call John for the first time.

Me. Hudson had shown Lissie the flat, (she'd found the skull and experiments fascinating, to the housekeeper' s horror) and then Lissie had popped the church question. Now Ms. Hudson was beaming and ironing furiously.

"Sherlock, dear, show the love to her room."

"Oh, right. You have John's old room, it's got a nice window."

"We need to decorate it up," Ms. Hudson said cheerfully.

Lissie looked hopeful at the mention of something long-term, and he hastened, "This is only a trial run."

He picked up Lissie' s suitcase and she followed him down the hall.

"Not much, just an empty bookshelf, wardrobe, bed and a little bathroom. I suppose you had better at Raymond Manor."

"Oh, it was missing something," she affirmed.

He raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"You," she laughed.

"Oh, clever. Don't think you can flatter me, now. "

He handed her the suitcase and left, returning with the Anne of Green Gables series. He set them on the bed.

She gave a squeal. "I love those! I was so sad when I realised I'd left mine at the manor. And these are such beautiful editions!"

Earlier shyness vanishing, she gave him a hug.

He stood there, taken aback. She stopped hugging, shy again. "Oh, sorry..."

She began hanging up her clothes neatly. Shutting the wardrobe, she then set her new books on the shelf, beside her Bible and journal.

He watched her work.

_She looks like her mother, but she has my eyes._

What? Where were these thoughts coming from? She was certainly a polite, friendly child, but he had no intention of letting her stay. She really would interfere with cases. If this week went well, though, he might have her here for a few weekends when school started up.

Backing out of the room, he suddenly noticed something was amiss with the window. And his papers were out of order.

Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but he checked through the papers. Yes, they had Ben disturbed.

" Ms. Hudson? Did you move these?"

"Of course not, dear. I'm not your housekeeper."

He refrained from pointing out that she was ironing his suit. Frowning, he began searching for signs of a forced entry.

Lissie made her way in.

"May I go for a walk? I've never been to London."

"Too dangerous, alone, dear," Ms. Hudson said. "Sherlock, why don't you take the love?"

They walked.

* * *

When they left the flat, they did not see a camera trained on them. Had they seen it, they still wouldn't have known Moriarty was tracking them on a series of cameras.

Eyes on the screens, Moriarty muttered, "How interesting. Sherlock really must have some relation to this girl, or he wouldn't be with her."

"Yes, he's not the mentor type," one of Moriarty's henchmen replied dryly.

They watched them walk.

* * *

At the corner, Sherlock paused and waited for Lissie to drink it all in.

"That's the river Thames. It's always grey like that."

He was in his element, now, pointing out places and telling bits of history. Lissie watched him and saw that his eyes lit up when he talked, just like hers did.


	6. Chapter 6

Later that day

Sherlock opened the refrigerator and dug past the experiments to pull out a carton of what he'd thought was milk. It was cream, and he stared at it hopelessly.

How was he supposed to prepare a real meal? Ms. Hudson had left, and he was alone with Lissie. They'd returned from their walk rather late, and now it was time for supper.

Again he searched the kitchen and took inventory of his food supply. Noodles, parmesan cheese, cream, flour and sugar, potato chips, parsley, peas, crackers, ranch dressing and a bag of carrots. There were also plenty of condiments- too bad mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, and pepper weren't exactly meals.

He began to peel carrots with a vengeance. Could carrots and Ranch count as a meal?

Lissie wandered in. "What are you making?"

A trifle exasperated, he told her, "Well, carrots, and..."

"Do you want me to cook something? I like cooking. Our chef taught me a lot of tricks."

"Have at it. Good luck," he said, pointing at his ingredients.

"Let's see...Oh, I can make something with the cream, noodles, and cheese. Ooh, parsley too! You have everything for fettucine Alfredo."

Within minutes she had prepared two large plates of pasta in a creamy white sauce.

He tasted it suspiciously. Surprised, he managed, "Why, this tastes like the Italian restaurant's, but better!"

She was pleased. "It's fun to cook for you."

After dinner, he told her he needed to work on a case for John's friend.

"Oh, I'll read my new books. May I sit here, though? I'll be very quiet, won't bother you a bit."She turned a hopeful face to him.

"Why?"

"Well, now that I'm finally here with you, I want to make the most of every second." Her tone was light, but her eyes were worlds of their own.

They both sat down. From time to time he looked up from his work at her. When she read, her hair fell down over her face in brown waves, and her eyes widened or darkened as she reacted to story events.

For an hour, until nine, they each worked at their projects. Presently he heard her get up and run water for a shower.

She reappeared a little later. "Goodnight, Sherlock..."

He adjusted his microscope. "Hmm? Oh, good night."

She left a little disappointingly, and he felt she had wanted something. He racked his brain. Hadn't his mother always 'tucked him in'? And when he was a little older, she'd sit on the edge of his bed and talk to him.

Well, he'd go in and tell Lissie goodnight in a minute.

When he finished his work nearly an hour later, he found her already asleep. Well, it had been a long day.

The covers had slipped off the bed. Almost timidly, he tucked the blankets back around her. Quietly, so as not to wake her up, he switched the lamp off.

Tall but thin for her age, she looked rather small and forlorn in the semi-darkness. He touched her hand gently and returned to his work.

"I don't understand why you want us to do all this."

Moriarty frowned at the speaker, his hitman, then turned to his group of assembled 'professional criminals'.

"Do I pay you to ask questions?"

"No," they managed nervously.

He laughed. "That's what I thought. Now, the girl looks like this, for those of you who haven't seen the videos. Her name is Felicity."

Sherlock awoke with a start. He must have fallen asleep at his work, again. Shifting and stretching from his cramped position, he realised it was early morning. Rays of light were filtered through the dusty blinds, creating patterns on the wallpaper.

He saw his violin, looking forgotten. He picked it up tenderly and began to play, softly. There was something about early mornings that made him want to play music.

He played high and low, putting his feelings and problems and emotions into the music, eyes closed. When he stopped and opened his eyes, Lissie was standing there, in her plaid pajamas bottoms and faded blue v-neck shirt.

She applauded, and he gave a little bow.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," he told her.

"Oh, no. I'm an early riser."

John looked across the pews and nudged Mary. "Look!"

A slow smile spread across her face. "Well, should we say hello, then?"

"It might embarrass him."

Sherlock, looking uncomfortable, was standing beside Ms. Hudson and a girl who had to be Lissie.

"She looks like him," Mary whispered.

"Well, she is his daughter."

Mary made a face at John and turned back to her spying. "Oh, she seems sweet. I'm happy for Sherlock. I can't believe he never told us anything about being married."

"Sh, the vicar' s starting."

The music began, but Mary was already planning excuses to work her way across church come greeting time.


	7. Chapter 7

It's gone pretty well. I survived this week, and she goes home tomorrow! Sherlock was surprised to feel a little twinge at the thought of Lissie leaving. The week really hadn't seemed that long.

He looked at his phone and saw that a client in John's case had agreed to meet with him in an hour. Perfect!

"Lissie, you'll be alright by yourself for a few minutes, won't you?"

"Yes."

As he scrolled through old messages, he saw the old ones from Moriarty. Perhaps he was being overly cautious,but...

He pulled up Moriarty' s mugshot. "If you ever see this man and I'm not with you, call me. "

Curious, she started to question him but he realised he needed to leave. He dashed into the den to get his paperwork.

She was standing wistfully by the door as he left. He gave her a little embrace. "I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Okay," she said, delighted at the show of affection.

He left, and she locked the door behind him.

Trudging upstairs, she flopped on hee bed and stared about the room blankly. So she would have to leave, after all. It was crushing, to have found her father and then have him slip through her fingers, but...at least she had found him.

Restless, she picked up Rilla of Ingleside , and began to read. Minutes slipped by.

An odd creaking noise startled her. Instantly alert, she slid off the bed and snuck noiselssly down the hall.

She nearly shrieked when she saw an enormous man standing in the kitchen. He was not the man - Moriarty - Sherlock had warned her about, but he looked dangerous.

Thankful he had not seen her, she backed away, planning on running upstairs, locking herself in her room, and calling police and Sherlock.

She backed into something cold and metallic.

Stupid, she berated herself as a man holding a gun to her head marched her into the living room. Still, she was a courageous, resilient girl, and not one to give up easily.

"I don't believe you have any bullets," she cried in a show of spirit.

The man holding her fired. A silent bullet thudded into the wall behind her.

So he had a silencer! She'd hoped the firing would alert someone. Too bad.

She yelled. "Help! Sherlock! He-"

The larger man twisted her arm painfully. "You be quiet or I'll give you something to shut you up." Both men wore gloves and surgical hats and booties. It was obviously so as to not leave a shred of evidence.

He pushed her towards the window and fire escape, ordering the other man, who he called Mutt, to call and inform "Boss".

Shoving her down at the table, he began to dig in his pack. "Kep your hands on the table where I can see them," he ordered.

Perfect. The table was covered in a thin layer of dust.

2 men, she scratched. Guns.Whatever else could be vital? If only she could leave some clue.

Unfortunately, she was dragged up before she could finish. They did not notice her writing.

Mutt held a syringe. She tensed, ready to fight, to run, but the big man had her in an iron grip. "I suggest you relax your arm. It will be some much easier than a struggle." Mutt shoved the syringe in her arm.

It hurt. Her whole body went limp, and before she succumbed to the drug she felt herself being lifted out onto the fire escape.

When she awoke, she was in the back of a car. She squinted her eyes and hoped they hadn't noticed she was awake.

By twisting and turning, she determined she was in a car with darkly tinted windows. A partition separated her from the front seats. Her head hurt. How long had she been here? It felt like hours. What did they want from her? Could these be the enemies Sherlock had mentioned?

The car was turning. It came to a screeching halt. Her door was jerked open, and a blindfold put around her eyes.

She was being dragged somewhere. But where was she? She focused all her energy on listening. Bird song and wind in trees. A sheep bleating. Somewhere rural.

She had been able to feel the sun on her face; now she felt cool darkness. Were they indoors?

Steps.

She pretended to stumble and felt about. Stone. Hmm.

Rather unceremoniously, she was flung to the ground. Her blindfold was removed.

She was in what resembled a dungeon or a prison. Stone walls, cell doors. It was a small and empty cell block- four cells. But she was not in a cell - not yet, anyway.

Sitting in front of her was a man with eyes that bugged out. She recognized him.

"Moriarty," she whispered.

Struggling to her feet, she faced him. He was smiling, a creepy, pleased smile.

"What is your name?"

She didn't answer.

He frowned. "What is your name? Come now, don't make this hard for yourself."

She stated at him in silent challenge.

Beckoning, he summoned over Mutt.

Mutt pinned her arms behind her back and waited.

"What is your name? Who is your father? I need a little confirmation before we play our game."

When she didn't answer, Mutt slammed her down into the stone. Her entire face felt like it was on fire. Was her nose broken? She wiggled it gingerly. No. But her lip was split and bleeding. Before he could hurt her again, she said, "I'm Lissie, Felicity actually."

Moriarty smiled. "Ahh, now you play along. What is your last name? And your parents?"

"I don't know my last name," she told him truthfully. "Really," she added as Mutt advanced.

"Lucky. I believe you. But who is your father?"

She could not, would not bring Sherlock into this. They had to be holding her to use against him in some way. Thinking fast, she said, "I don't know. Currently I'm posing as Mr. Holmes' daughter to help him with a case- he needs to pose as a father to get into a school." Oh, God. Would he accept this insane, spur of the moment lie?

Moriarty' s eyebrows twitched. Did he believe her?

"She screamed for Sherlock when Jock grabbed her," Mutt supplied helpfully.

Oh, she had forgotten that. Where was Sherlock? She hoped he was alright.

"We shall see," Moriarty said finally. He walked over to a desk in a dark corner. "Bring her here, Mutt."

"I better get paid extra for this," Mutt grumbled.

He pushed her into the folding chair. There was something despondent about the two metal chairs and beat up table that felt omnious. Moriarty sat on the other side. He pushed pen and paper towards her.

"Write Dear Sherlock," he told her.

She complied.

"Now tell him you're in trouble, and bad old Moriarty has you," he laughed. "Feel free to be more expressive. You can't possibly give him any clues- unfortunately, you haven't inherited his powers of deduction."

"I'm in a manor house in Dorset county," she said aloud.

His face contorted with something like glee and rage mixed together. "How-"

"The distance from London. The sheep noises. The soft ground from rain. Only Dorset's had rain lately. Old stone walls."

"He - Sherlock- taught you," Moriarty snarled.

"No, really I didn't know I could. So my guess was right?"

"Write what I say."

She knew whatever she wrote would be used to lure Sherlock here, and she hated every word. Was this how prisoners of war felt signing propaganda?

"Your letter will be delivered to Sherlock with clues as to your whereabouts. Eventually, he will come here. You will be my own against him."

"Why?"

"When a criminal is the cleverest in his field, slipping past authorities and brilliantly planning things, what does the government do? They'll accept his offer to show them how it's done. It's all an act, see. Using information your Sherlock gives me, and my already brilliant mind, I'll seem to have a knowledge of all crime in England. By helping the government, I will be in close contact with influential people. Eventually, I will bribe some, threaten some. Then, using my power, I can access any government item in Britain. I have a network of 'friends'. I can easily erase their pasts. I can do whatever I want, as the most powerful man in England."

"You're telling me this because you expect me to die," she said slowly, without fear or hesitation

"You don't miss much. Perhaps you are more like your father than I realized. And yes, once your father has been persuaded to talk, I won't need either one of you. Back to the boring side of the angels."

"You're mad."

He sneered in her face, shutting the cell door. "Don't worry, I'll be back."

She sank to the stone floor. "Sherlock," she cried. She remembered how he'd embraced her this morning. "He was learning to love me, and Moriarty ruined it all."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about y'all but I see Lestrade as a sort of fatherly figure to John, Sherlock and even Anderson.

John took one glance at all the police cars and pounded the knocker again. Finally the door swung open.

"Sherlock! I came as soon I heard the news," John panted.

But the man who opened the door at 221B wasn't Sherlock. It was Scotland Yard Inspector Greg Lestrade, looking very grave.

"John, can you tell me what you know about the marriage? I don't want to press Sherlock right now."

"Of course." Quickly John outlined the situation, or as much as he knew. It was all so strange.

"Hmm! I must say, I never saw this coming."

"Me neither. How's he taking it?"

Lestrade ran a hand through his graying hair. "Rather...bad. A letter came from Moriarty - he obviously forced the girl to write it. But come in."

Inside, John saw Sherlock staring at the table, hands jammed in pockets. He, too, could plainly see the words Lissie had scratched in the dust.

"I'm going out," Sherlock said abruptly, not bothering to acknowledge John.

Lestrade put a hand out and stopped him. "Oh no, you aren't. We both know you're going to follow the clues in that letter."

Sherlock snorted. "He has my daughter, Lestrade. What am I supposed to do, sit here and wait for the police to catch up? I don't have years."

Lestrade's features softened. "Listen, Sherlock. I have kids, too. I'm sure I'd be going crazy if something happened to them. But man, you of all people should see that this whole thing's a bloody trap! Moriarty even specified you come alone!"

Sherlock moved restlessly. "Of course it's a trap. But better me trapped than Lissie."

Lestrade grabbed his coat lapels and gave him a little shake. "Sherlock Holmes, quit that nonsense-"

"There's a bullet hole in the wall here, sir," Anderson called. Lestrade released Sherlock and rushed over. It was not one of the now-familiar holes adorning the yellow smiley face but rather one on an entirely different wall.

John hadn't known it was possible for Sherlock to turn any paler than he already was. If Sherlock' s deductive powers hadn't instantly noticed that, he must truly be frantic, John mused,heading over to inspect the hole. Ms. Hudson fluttered about nervously.

Suddenly the door slammed shut with a bang, and Lestrade cried, "Sherlock, no!"

It was too late. Rushing outside, they saw Sherlock leaping into a taxi.

Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned his head against the brick wall. "God help us."

"Taxi," John called, desperately waving his arms.

The older man opened his eyes. "John, it's no use. He figured out the clues in the letter; we didn't. Moriarty obviously planned it that way. We have no idea where Sherlock's going."

Anderson had followed them out. "We can trace the bullet to a gun," he said hopefully.

"I suppose that might help," Lestrade sighed. "But they're clever; they'll have probably disposed of it, or scraped the serials off."

Other police milling about began to whisper. They had never seen the famous Scotland Yard leader so distraught and hopeless.

The taxi dropped Sherlock off at a rental car place. He rented a powerful-looking but unassuming black saloon and set off.

I lost Elsie; I won't lose Lissie as well.

Eventually, he had narrowed his search down. The last place on his list was an old castle-house outside of Dorset. Built by an influential family with ties to the Tudors, it had once housed a dungeon where those in the way of the throne were exiled. He ignored the calls from John and Lestrade, feeling slightly remorseful but determined. He wavered at the call from Ms. Hudson, but eventually ignored it,too. Mycroft was next. Sherlock had no trouble not answering his, at least.

He parked the car a good distance from the manor and felt for his automatic. It was a nice little gun, given to him by an arms dealer he'd helped out of smuggling charges.

Now he grasped it in his right hand and waited for twilight to fall. He used his time to plan. He'd sneak in, scope out the place, and free Lissie if possible. If not possible, he'd hide and wait for her guards to leave before freeing her.

It was a crazy plan. The normal careful, caculating Holmes was gone, frantic Sherlock replaced him.

Slowly, the darkness began to creep in, accompanied by fog, thick and eerie.

He snuck to the house. The side door was locked, and he used a long strand of wire from his pocket to pick it easily. The detective froze in the huge hall. Someone was coming. It was a man, his hand bloody.

"The little brat bit me," he shrieked to no one in particular.

Sherlock smiled with grim satisfaction. So Lissie was holding her own. He waited for the man to pass, then headed the direction the man had come from. Rown a set of stone steps, the air grew colder. Some sort of underground room - oh, right, the dungeon.

Now he must tread carefully. He tightened his grip on the pistol and crept slowly in.


	9. Chapter 9

MEANWHILE

Lissie had been left alone for some time, and she'd used her time to make a thorough examination of her cell. There was a drain, but it was not wide enough to escape through. The cell was windowless and cold. A single lightbulb dimly illuminating the cell seemed to add to the gloom.

She sat down, feeling the chilly stone through her clothes. She pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them in an effort to get warm.

Would Sherlock come? A selfish part of her wished he would. However, she knew he should not walk into this trap. Moriarty had seemed very sure Sherlock would arrive. She wondered about this. Sherlock hadn't really shown any affection to her, had he? Would he risk his life to track her down?

Will anyone miss me when I die? Poor Sherlock, he'll have lost two now.

They were morbid thoughts,but then, she had grown up in the shadow of her mother's death. Her grandparents had also recently died- she was quite familiar with the subject. Lissie comforted herself with: I'll see Mum in heaven, but even the promise of a reunion was not cheerful enough for the morbidity to pass.

Her lip was still dripping blood. It was beginning to congeal, though, and she pressed her hand to stop the bleeding. The man named Jock opened the door and began to pull her out into the larger room. She lunged at him, sinking her teeth into his palm. He yelped and shut the door, cursing and screaming for Moriarty.

She knew fighting was futile and foolish, that it would only bring her more pain in the long run. But she would not go down without a fight. Moriarty would not destroy Britain easily if she could help it. How strange, that only she, a schoolgirl, stood in the way between a terroristic mastermind and her country,

The room empty again, she rested her head on her knees and tried to quell her worry. She felt so very alone in this vast stone emptiness. She heard faint noises and tensed. Someone was coming.

It was Moriarty. He hummed to himself, stopping in front of her.

"You think you're clever, because you can stop those simpletons. Well, I've got an entire network of dangerous people, and I'll let some of them have a go at you. Then we'll see how you like it, hmm?"

The way he talked was so patronizing. She made a face at him and he laughed. "You are boring, Lissie. Just like Sherlock, you are so determined to protect your dear little friends and family. You're practically little angels; it's boring. I'm tired of this. Boring, boring, BORING."

He smiled his creepy smile again and clapped his hands. "I know! Let's have some fun!"

She tried not to show her fear as he advanced.

"The real fun starts when your precious Sherlock gets here, but..." He punched her so hard her head snapped back, and she saw bright spots. She had not anticipated he would want to get his hands dirty and it shocked her.

"Didn't know old Moriarty had it in him, did you? Thought he had people to do all his dirty work?"

She struggled not to cry. In her head, she began thinking. "When I am afraid, I will put my trust in Thee..." BUGGER, it was no use. It is very easy to rely on hopes and promises when all is well but they are less reassuring when confronted by a madman.

"You are familiar with chess? Should I explain it to you? It has a fascinating history."

"School's out," she said with more bravado than she felt.

He nodded. "No more history, then. You know what a pawn is?"

She said, "Yes."

"Good. That is what you are. My little pawn for Sherlock."

A man came in with a bucket and Moriarty took it from him. How many goons did Moriarty have anyway? One was always popping up with some new evil plan. Moriarty placed the pail on the ground and looked excited. "Now for the fun." He forced her head in. She gasped, feeling the cold water.  
Lissie held her breath as long as she could, but two minutes in she began flailing about. Her lungs tightened, and dizzy fear overcame her. Was this man going to let her drown? He was.

Someone cried "Moriarty! Stop!"

Choking and coughing, she was pulled out and shoved aside. Who was her savior? She struggled to sit up, throat burning and lungs painful.

It was Sherlock. He had a gun pointed at Moriarty, his other hand balled into a fist. His coat swirling about him, he looked quite the hero.

"Lissie, are you alright?" he asked urgently.

"I'm okay," she sputtered. Then "Sherlock!"

He spun around, but it was too late. The room was filling with Moriarty' s men, all clutching guns.

"It is amazing, whom one can hire," Moriarty laughed. "Now, Sherlock, be a good boy and drop your weapon. You and Lissie are about to play a little game with me. But first, a few questions."

He directed them to chairs and had Mutt tie them both up, across from each other.

Mutt was rough, and the rope dug into Lissie's arms. She winced and looked at Sherlock. His eyes met hers, silently willing her to be strong. Save face, keep calm and carry on.

"Sherlock. We meet again."

"Cut the drama, Moriarty."

"Anything for you. How fitting; you said 'cut'. Now, what I have here is a knife. Should you two play along, I will not have to use it. Understand?"

"I understand," Sherlock said, eyes still not leaving Lissie's face.

As he watched,Moriarty drug the knife across the girl's arm.

"Naughty Sherlock. You didn't tell me you had a daughter. Oh! Perhaps you didn't even know. Did you have an AFFAIR?" His eyebrows wiggled.

Sherlock' s voice was calm, but his hands uncharacteristically shook. "I was married."

Moriarty feigned shock. "Oh,my. A woman loved YOU? This is your daughter?"

"Let her go! She has nothing you want."

"You didn't answer me!" Moriarty taunted.

Lissie struggled not to cry out. She watched as jagged red lines appeared on her skin. When Sherlock was silent, the knife dug harder.

A little cry of pain escaped her, and she pressed her lips together in an effort to hold it in.

But Sherlock had heard. Quickly, he said, "She's my daughter."

Moriarty set the knife down. "Well. See how easy cooperation is?"

Sherlock' s eyes blazed wildly. "Moriarty!", he cried forcefully.

"Yes?"

Passionately, he choked out "Listen to me. Do whatever you want to me; I don't care. I'll tell you anything and everything. But let the girl go. She hasn't done anything wrong. She is nothing to you."

When Moriarty didn't answer, he added, "Please."

The evil man's whole face lit up. "I do like to see you beg. The famous consulting detective, reduced to...this."

He began to circle Sherlock, reminding Lissie of a vulture.


End file.
